Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A s Darcy traversed the wet cobblestones of Clerkenwell, nodding to acquaintances he had made during his stay and giving the redhead from the nearby brothel the same firm shake of the head he always did—though he was friendlier about it now than he had been at her first offer—he could not help but wonder about Fitzwilliam’s ‘bright star’, as Elizabeth had called the lady who held his cousin’s affections.
Fitzwilliam had never spoken to Darcy of any woman by name. Indeed, even during his time on the Continent, Darcy did not think he had dallied with the local ladies, as soldiers often do in times of war. Fitzwilliam had seemed wholly focused on keeping himself and his men alive while he was in France and Spain, and equally as focused on the inequity of the whole situation when he had returned to English soil. Romance, it seemed, had not been on his cousin’s mind.
Now, however, it clearly was.
Was Fitzwilliam in love with Elizabeth? The two got on rather well together. He regaled her with his easy wit and charming manner, and she delighted him with her laughter and bright conversation. Darcy had seen Fitzwilliam’s evident admiration of Elizabeth—could that admiration have made the transition to affection during Darcy’s time away?
Of course it had! Had he not been seeking out Elizabeth’s company on morning walks, visiting the parsonage, looking to her for solace in this time of uncertainty? If Fitzwilliam was suffering from the anxiety of Darcy’s flight, it was little wonder he would desire the comfort of a friend.
Why had he told Fitzwilliam he would not pursue her? Why had he not allowed his closest friend to see the truth of the matter? Now Fitzwilliam would be forced to suffer the same heartbreak Darcy had, for a refusal from Elizabeth Bennet was no small indignity!
Darcy saw with grief the agony his cousin would soon go through, for he knew what it was to love Elizabeth Bennet and to be rejected by her.
Elizabeth rounded the corner to the back garden of Rosings Park in search of Molly. The sun was high in the sky as the hour grew nearer for her to accompany her cousin and his family for their usual Sunday supper at Rosings. She had walked on ahead of the parsonage party in hopes of being able to interview Mrs Walker.
As they had planned, Molly met Elizabeth just outside the servants’ entrance and waved her in. She led her genteel friend down a dark passage, through the still room, and into the kitchen. There, standing before a great wooden island, inspecting the dishes being prepared for dinner upstairs, was a lanky woman of no more than forty. Her identity was clear from the large chatelain hanging from her side; this was Mrs Walker.
The housekeeper’s eyes widened in understanding when Molly pointed her out, and Elizabeth was ushered into a small sitting room furnished with a wooden settee before the small hearth and a desk in one corner. Mrs Walker locked the door behind them and motioned for Elizabeth to join her on the settee.
“Mrs Walker,” Elizabeth said with what she hoped was a disarming smile, “thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me. I know how very busy you must be.”
“It is nothing, Miss Bennet, not if I can be of any help whatsoever to Mr Darcy, that precious man.”
Elizabeth was not surprised that the servants were somewhat aware of the circumstances of Darcy’s disappearance. No doubt at least one of them had heard the accusations of the ‘constables’, though she did not think that Barnes, Darcy’s valet, would have revealed the full truth to anyone. Whatever she knew, Mrs Walker felt keenly for the plight of her former master. After listening to the housekeeper express how worried she had been since Darcy’s disappearance, Elizabeth manoeuvred the conversation to Pemberley and the past.
“I understand you were working as a maid at Pemberley on the night Lady Anne disappeared,” Elizabeth said.
“That I was. What a sad thing that was—to walk out the door to the splendour and gaiety of the Darcys’ harvest festival and walk back in to the wails of a babe missing her mother.” Her lips were pressed together as if to quell the emotion such a memory dredged up.
“And Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh were present for the feast, am I correct?”
“The whole Fitzwilliam family was there, including Sir Lewis and the earl.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam’s father?”
“Lord and Lady Matlock, the viscount, and young Master Richard—they were all there. It was really something to see all those fine ladies and gentlemen dancing and carrying on with the common folk.”
“That is singular indeed.” Elizabeth smiled, not having realised the colonel’s given name was Richard. “And Lady Anne, did she join in the festivities at all?”
“Oh no, ma’am.” Mrs Walker shook her head. “She had been rather poorly after the birth of her daughter and did not wish to attend. No, Lady Anne chose to stay at the great house. If we had known what would happen…”
“You had no idea? She gave no indication that she was not happy at Pemberley? That she was longing to get away?”
“She was certainly not happy, but I cannot say it had anything to do with Pemberley. She dearly loved her husband and Master Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you know, perhaps you do not, but some women do not recover their spirits after their lying in. I am afraid Lady Anne was such a woman. As the months went by, she just grew weaker and weaker. By the time of the feast, she was merely a shell of her former, lovely self.”
“And how did Lady Catherine react to seeing her sister in this state?” Elizabeth enquired.
“Oh, as is usual for her. Attempted to lecture Lady Anne out of her blue devils. Scolded her for being so thin and wan. Reminded her what was expected of such an exalted lady. And Miss de Bourgh went right along with her, following the poor woman around and berating her for her weaknesses.”
“Was she not just a child then?” Elizabeth asked, trying to picture a young Miss de Bourgh being so aggressive and cruel. What would have been impossible to imagine only weeks ago was now vivid in her mind after having witnessed Miss de Bourgh’s tirade at tea.
“Aye, that she was. Tall for her age and mean as a hornet.” At this, Mrs Walker lowered her voice and leant in to add, “Not out loud, mind you, but you could see something in her eyes that said she would just as soon maim you as look at you. I think Lady Anne was afraid of the girl.”
“Do you think that was why she left? Out of fear?”
The housekeeper looked about the locked room as if anyone could possibly have entered before uttering her next words, “I am not convinced Lady Anne did leave.”
The allegation took a moment to sink in, and when it did, it left Elizabeth breathless. Mrs Walker coloured at her own boldness and, seeming to feel she had said too much, rose to end the conversation.
Desperate to know more, Elizabeth grabbed her arm. “No! Pray, do not leave, not yet!”
Mrs Walker sat back down and inhaled sharply before continuing. “After Lady Anne departed and everyone was in such a frenzy to find out where she went, Lady Catherine was hysterical. Mr Darcy set about searching for her, even hired men to do so. Lady Catherine, however—she was crying like all of us, but it was a different sort of grief. Her grief smacked of guilt if you ask me. She made no attempt to guess what happened to her sister, ordered no one to search this place or that; it was as if she knew that Lady Anne could not be retrieved. And Miss de Bourgh—her reaction was the most curious of all. She seemed positively…giddy.”
“What exactly is it you suspect?”
“I should not have said anything. I have no proof that anything bad happened to Lady Anne. It was wrong of me to say so, to imply such a thing against the daughter of my mistress. Indeed, when I came to work here and saw what a meek, frail thing Miss de Bourgh had become, I began to doubt my own memory.”
“And now?”
“And now,” the lady said with a sharp inhale before meeting Elizabeth’s gaze intently, “I am reminded of exactly why I suspected her in the first place.”